


Never Enough

by WhumpTown



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Porn, F/M, Flashbacks, It's not going very well for either of them, Smut, They're using sex to cope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown
Summary: They both deserve better but they keep coming back here
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner/Emily Prentiss
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Never Enough

Even with the gift of hindsight, they continue to make the same mistake time and time again.

It starts with wine.

“You’re a wealth of knowledge,” she says huskily, shaking her head. Unabashed in the playful flirting that they can slip so easily into as Aaron and Emily. It’s nothing for her to drag her hand across the small of his back or the way that she stands now-- one hand slipped into the waistband of his grey pants to curl her cold fingers around his hip.

She leans her head against his arm, handing him her glass of wine when he reaches for it. All without thinking. Reflexive. That’s what they are. Reaching for one another is the same damned ending as reaching for a pipe or another bottle of bourbon. It’s going to hurt so damn good. It’s the only comfort they know.

He hums because he’s never been able to get used to her drunken lips forming such heartfelt compliments. “It’s just a grilled cheese,” he whispers, wetting his dry mouth with a sip of her wine. “Nothing too crazy.” They both know it’s never as simple as a grilled cheese.

They sit at the table and exchange stories for the week. She admonishes his pursuit of this week’s serial killer. Voice a little too weak when she admits that she’s not in the kind of mental place to handle losing him. He looks away and picks at the crust of the sandwich he made himself even though the thought of eating makes him sick.

When he kisses her two glasses of wine later, she feels nothing. For the first time in a long time, the hand working its way up her back doesn’t send a chill down her spine. She still opens her mouth wider and moans when he pulls her hips flush to his own. It takes nothing for his hands to grab her hips and have her stumbling back for his bedroom.

He’s already hard against her palm by the time she can work his fly down.

It’s a wine hazed blur.

His mouth working between her thighs-- her hand gripping his thick mop of hair as she thrust herself against his chin. Seeking her own pleasure. He slips two fingers into her with ease, the soft wet squelch makes him breathe a hot gasp against her thigh. She’s shaking by the time he gets going, mouth open and head tilted back. She’s wrapped on leg around his shoulders and the other control by the fits of trembling she can’t control.

“Aaron,” she chokes, so close. So very close. “Please,” she pleads and she looks down and he’s looking back at her.

He encourages her on, knowing that his breath across her bare skin is only adding to the heat in the pit of her stomach. “Come on, baby,” he encourages. “Cum for me.”

And that’s the script. He’s brutal with his delivery and so tender with his voice.

She’s nothing like him.

“Oh fuck,” he slips inside of her and closes his eyes to control himself.

She wraps on leg around his hips and flips them. Not even giving him the chance to speak as she starts to ride him. The slap of their hips is hard, she’s set a punishing pace and he knows better than to try and do anything about that. His fists go to the sheets, knowing she’ll only hit or push his hands away if he grabs for her hips.

He feels good inside her even if they both rationally know this isn’t’ okay. They’re just sex, that’s all they’re capable of. He can’t get over Haley and she’s too fucking broken to go wasting someone’s time. So they come here. Fuck the grief and hate out of each other.

They’re setting such an awful standard for Jack.

He’s hitting her just right, her orgasm on the fast track and she knows from the little crowfeet of his sweat-streaked forehead he’s every bit as close as she is. Moving, she leans down over top of him kissing at his jaw and creating more friction for her to rub into. She puts her hand too low, grazing his ribs and he lets out a panicked sound.

He’s no longer fucking his best friend coworker in his bed. He’s on that floor, knife wedged in between his ribs, and the ache-- the way the knife drags against his flesh with each breath he takes. Certain that each time he inhales the tip gauges his lung. Foyet’s hot breath down his neck, taunting.

She sees _something_ light up in his eyes and before she can inquire he’s gripping her hips hard enough to hurt, definitely enough to leave bruises. “Stop,” he grunts, quickly following it with a panicked. “Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.” He’s out of her and on his feet in a flash. He doesn’t make it far before he’s on his hands and knees on the floor. One arm tucked around his ribs.

“Aaron?”

He shakes his head, just trying to get his panicked breathing under control. The impact of the situation is not helping. On his hands and knees on his bedroom floor with a raging hard on between his legs and a panic attack just trying to bubble it’s way to the surface. 

He could, at least, do without the erection.

“Are you okay?”

He nods his head, slowly standing on shaking legs. “I--” he moves to his dresser to his underwear drawer. He pulls out the cigarettes without a second thought, placing one between his teeth. “...going to the porch,” he mumbles.

“Naked,” she asks, crawling out of the bed herself. 

He spins on his heel and pulls a pair of boxers out of the drawer. 

She watches him leave without comment. Knowing this routine just as well as their post-orgasm haze. They’ve both ruined enough these nights to know there is no required apology. It’s pointless. Tonight, Foyet. Next time, Doyle. It’s just how these things work. 

It’s how they work. 

And it’s why she returns here more nights than she really should. He’s the only person who can understand her. 

Some men’s legacies live long after them and written into their very flesh is the legacy of the men who ruined their lives. It's a fucked kind of bond to share.

Slipping into his boxers and a sweatshirt from his closet she heads outside to join him. The hoodie hands down over her ass and the arms pasts her fingers but there’s something comforting about the way every breath she takes is just _him_. 

She steps out onto the porch and it’s without a single word that she passes him the lighter, watching as he lights the cigarette. 

She sits down beside him on the porch swing, drawing her legs up and leaning into his chest. Shivering as the night air shifts to blow wind towards them leaving her uncovered skin covered in cold chills. 

Taking the cigarette from his extended hand she draws in a deep breath. The familiar weight of the heat in her lungs is relaxing and she thinks maybe the afternoon wasn’t a complete waste.

He’s looking at the stairs, eyes wet and tears drying on his face.

She doesn’t have to look to know they’re there. The sight makes her stomach churn with guilt. She’d been… almost glad they hadn’t finished. Glad he hadn’t wanted to keep going. Now she sees the repercussions of that and wishes he’d just fucked the pain away. Then maybe the cigarette wouldn’t taste so stale.

“I just keep fucking everything up,” he whispers thickly. Scoffing when another wave of tears make their way over his dark eyelashes. He wipes them away harshly. Unforgiving. “I do,” he repeats, looking at her now. “I can’t even love you. I--” his chest rises shakily. “I can’t, Emily. I’m so broken, I’m incapable of loving another person. That’s how much I hate myself.” His voice thickens as he looks away, turning his head from her. “You don’t deserve that.”

She doesn’t. 

He doesn’t either. 

And that’s where they are. Stuck. Incapable of loving one another. Unable to forgive their sins. 

Kissing his lips she taste the salt of his tears and still says, “I love you.” 

She’s told that lie already.


End file.
